Gone Fishin'

After a lot of thought, I'm closing down this blog (though I'm not going to delete everything, and, who knows, I might even come back to it some day). I've really enjoyed you all, and, who knows, maybe we'll meet again. It's been a wild ride--WAY wilder than i could possibly have anticipated when I started this thing--and I thank you all for your company along the way.

Be well.

Light, and Some Sweetness

The good things: getting to the library (the main branch, thanks so much) and finding a bunch of books to read; having a lovely dinner; getting my address changed on my driver's license; getting my voter registration changed at the same time.

The less-good things: realizing that I actually have to design not one but two websites, one for the bakery (which won't be hard) and one for one of my clients (which will be more difficult than I thought, because I thought I was just writing copy and inserting it in places that someone else was figuring out); realizing that I really am going to need new glasses soon, which, thanks to my myopia and astigmatism, is an expensive proposition; and having the woman at the Secretary of State's office inform me that my hair is gray and putting that on my driver's license as my hair color. Yes, there is a substantial amount of gray in it, but it has plenty of its original color--especially in lighting other than basement-of-the-county-building-fluorescent. I suppose I could have dropped trou and proved my point, but that seemed (a) excessive and (b) likely to get me arrested and photographed in lighting that would be even more unflattering.

Exclusions

Until I thought too much, I was feeling all virtuous today--yesterday I (a) walked (b) to a yoga class, which means I walked about six miles and then practiced in a class for the first time in several months. The teacher was her usual gracious self, and was genuinely glad to see me, which was nice. I didn't get any copyediting done, but I fired off the first chapter this morning. Yesterday I also moved some things around in the apartment. I don't know whether it's because I have more stuff, or I'm older, or what, but it has taken me MUCH longer to arrange things than it ever has before. (The interlude of the enmeasled walls and ceiling didn't help, either.) Flip side, though, is that I'm liking where things are ending up; it almost feels like they're finding their own places. Which is too hippy-dippy even for me.

I had dinner Saturday night with Dave and the Kid, which also was nice. It's great to see the Kid, and it's clear he's glad to see me, and not just because I brought him a baguette. It's good to see Dave, too, though of course it's strange in a whole other way that I didn't know existed. We're both on our best behavior, which tends to eliminate the vitriol and recriminations, and that's fine with me; I've had quite enough of that, thanks so much. Thus, what ends up being on display are the things that were good about our relationship. And, let's face it, we know each other, so it's impossible to not lapse into flashes of familiarity. He keeps reiterating that he does not want to be friends with me, in any way, shape, or form, and he's told me multiple times that he's happier now than he's ever been in his life (meaning, to me, that's he's happier without me than he ever was with me), so I don't misinterpret the Best Behavior as anything other than an effort to enable me and the Kid to see each other--but I appreciate it nevertheless.

After dinner, I came home and turned on the television (which I don't usually do), and found the end of "Elf." Which made me cry (because I'm pathetic, or bathetic, at least). Not at the movie itself (though I really liked it a lot when I saw it), but at the memory that Dave and the Kid and I went to see it together and had a great time. Most of the time I trundle along, making the croissants, editing shit, hanging out, doing whatever; I have years of experience doing that stuff, and those habits have kept me from falling apart completely, not to mention that falling apart completely isn't something I tend to do very well. But then stuff grabs me by the neck (or gut) and twists. I don't know what else to do except cry for awhile and then move on, which probably makes me appear more la-di-da than I feel. I don't know what else to do, though; falling apart isn't going to improve my situation, and the croissants still won't make themselves.

This morning, I started to fall apart for what only appears to be a completely different reason. I need health insurance, and I'm having a bitch of a time getting it, which is ridiculous. Pick ten women my age, and I guarantee I'm in better shape, and take better care of myself, than most of them, despite my so-called preexisting conditions. My favorite part is where they say they'll insure me . . . with an exclusion for the conditions. WTF--that's why I need the fucking insurance! Assholes. I'm in the process of trying to get medical records so I can appeal the decision of the first company, but that is, in fact, a process rather than an event.

Meanwhile, though, I freak out about not having insurance, and that makes me rummage around looking for another job, an office job, one that will pay me enough and will provide said benefits. The jobs out there . . . either I can do them, but would want to slit my wrists (provided I could get them, which is unlikely), or I don't have the qualifications (either really don't have them, or don't have them on paper, even if I could do the job), or the job is in an industry or doing something that I really find problematic, or some happy combo of all those things. I have more skills than you can count, and I can't find a fucking job, which mostly makes me feel useless and scared.

Really, though, the scary part is this foray into baking, and I'm beginning to think it was the biggest mistake I made. Now that I've been doing this for nearly a year, my resume is even more checkered than it was before, making me even more undesirable (except to bakers, who don't pay very much), especially to drones who want people who fit into boxes. I know what I'd say if I'd get an interview--that I was changing careers, and that opening my own business depending on personal circumstances, which have changed--but I don't even get phone calls or acknowledgments of applications, much less interviews. Who the fuck would hire me, at this point, to do anything OTHER than baking? At which, as noted, I don't make enough on which to live. I don't mind the combo of baking and editing, really, but neither of those jobs provides the aforementioned health insurance I need so sorely. So I cave, and start looking for another job, and see how unlikely it is that I'll find one, and then I just get plain scared. I'm 48 years old, I have a wide variety of skills and experience but no "career path," I've got yet another student loan to pay off, I'm going to make less this year--by a lot--than in any year since 1994, and I've spent my savings on a wedding for a marriage that lasted less than a year and on the life we had before we got married. (We divvied up household expenses proportionately, based on income, and I made more, except (a) Dave wasn't honest about either his income or his expenses, so I don't have any idea how we should really have divided things up, and (b) more importantly, I kept paying more even when my actual income dropped, because of the missed paychecks.)

You can see how this vicious mental circle ends badly every time, and you can see why I prefer to not fall apart. This falling apart thing, I don't like it so much, and it doesn't solve any of the problems.

It's also worth pointing out that, when push comes to shove, and when I'm not freaking out, I actually feel pretty grateful and content, even if that's not the part that makes it to this space. Hell, if I could just get health insurance, I'd be happy! Seriously--I know I can't keep doing exactly what I'm doing forever, because it's simply too grueling, and I'd definitely like to be able to take some time off once in awhile, but my biggest worry is the health insurance.

Efficiency

So I was going to whine for a few sentences (about shlepping TO the grocery store, and then BACK to the train station, then from my train station TO my apartment, blah, blah, blah), but I had some STFU juice and decided to not do that. I'm also not going to lament, a-fucking-gain!, that i was going to do some yoga when I got home but then I didn't. Whatever.

I AM going to complain about the catalogues, however. I tend to buy my clothing online, not least because I hate shopping. Reason number two is that women's clothes often don't fit me very well, so rummaging around in a space I hate (a mall or department store of some kind) trying to find something that I like and that fits me, well, no, thanks. I've managed to find some online retailers whose sizing I know pretty well (most notably L. L. Bean, except for shoes--I've never had good luck with any of their shoes) and I just stick with them. There were a few others from whom I used to buy clothes, but since I don't wear clothes much any more--other than chef clothes and jeans--I might leaf through the catalogue but that's about it.

My point--and, yes, i do have one--is that the only catalogues to which I gave my new address were Bean and Title 9. But every last catalogue I used to get has managed to find me already, which I suppose is a testament to some kind of efficiency, but which is also kind of annoying. It used to be that you'd get this six- to ten-month grace period until the catalogues (and charitable organizations) found you, and some might never find you unless you ordered from them again, but apparently they've become more efficient. Plus, this city does not really have recycling that actually works. Plus, unlike downtown, the building in which I now live does not have recycling, which means I'm throwing away aluminum, plastic, and glass, much to my dismay. If I had a vehicle (and more motivation), I might recycle on my own, but let's face it--I was going to whine about carrying groceries. At least I no longer read a newspaper, which dramatically reduces the amount of paper trash for which I'm responsible. Except for the catalogues.

Edjamacation

If you're looking for something deep and insightful, well, once again, this blog isn't going to be a good source for that.

This guy Jack who wanders into the bakery on occasion--the one whose accent I identified, a couple of posts ago--has done some deliveries for us lately, presumably filling in around the edges when our regular delivery guy is done for the day, or, even more likely, doing it at a cheaper rate (and for cash) than sending, say, Johnnie to do the delivery, which also means pulling Johnnie away from whatever he's doing to drive a van. Friday he came in, and, after he left, Jefe says, hey, you used to work with these guys (meaning the alcoholics and junkies), Jack says he's going to be outside this weekend (meaning living on the street)--how does that happen? So first I explained about how, often enough, drugs or alcohol were involved somewhere, and then also about how close to the edge a lot of people live. I used the example of my brother--who would have lost his house if my parents hadn't been able to bail him out. (If I haven't mentioned it before, my sister-in-law didn't pay the mortgage for about 18 months, though she made it look as though she were doing so; basically, she had a bunch of credit card debt that she'd never mentioned and that had gotten worse, what with high rates and late fees and the like.) In other words, for people who don't have any kind of safety net, any little mistake, or even any little thing out of their control, and they are just screwed.

Jefe nodded at that, and compared it to the people in the nearby (rich) suburbs, many of whom, he thinks, are going to be losing their homes. It's not the same thing, exactly, because those people probably won't end up living on the streets, and they got to their straits because they bought too much crap, by and large, but hey, whatever helps you understand. A little while later, I also pointed out that the other thing is that it's expensive to be poor. Which kind of took him back a step (and Brad, of course, had some stupid remark, though he then heard me, I think)--I pointed out that, if you don't have a place to store food, then you end up buying a lot of fast food, which is way more expensive than making your own. If you don't have the money for a security deposit, you can't get an apartment, so you end up in an SRO, or a motel, or whatever. I'm not sure how much Jefe understood, and not because he's right-wing, or because he's not smart, but because it's a bakery, and we're all in the middle of doing something, or two or three things, more like; it's not like sitting in a classroom, or sitting in a bar with a beer. But I planted a seed. Now I just have to get my copy of "Nickeled and Dimed" back from my brother and hand it over to Jefe.

I cannot for the life of me figure out why he's a Republican. (He thinks the war in Iraq is a disaster, though.) He's certainly not a big business owner--he owns his own business, sure, but he employs maybe 25 people. He's been able to send his kids to good schools (some of the best public schools in the country) and to college, and get them the help they need with their learning disabilities (dyslexia, mostly, I think), but they live in a small house, apparently, and I think they only have one vehicle. He works nearly every day at the bakery, and believe me, he's not sitting on his ass--he's doing whatever job needs to be done, and he's there more hours than anyone else. (He also doesn't regard it as "work": as he says, he enjoys what he does and doesn't regard it as work; painting the garage is work.) I thought I heard him say once that he's pro-choice. He's not particularly conservative socially--he's not religious at all, and he really doesn't seem to care what people do. He's not racist (or, at least, if he is, he hides it better than anyone I've ever seen). He's compassionate, in his way--hiring Jack to make deliveries, hiring the local alcoholic to hang the holiday lights outside or do some yardwork at his house. He's been basically sponsoring Johnnie to do more stuff with his artistic talents and his baking skills, and he's also helping Johnnie get his CMB (Certified Master Baker--there are maybe 150 or so in the country). But he watches or listens to the right-wing talking heads, and he thinks they're pretty good.

What I suspect has happened is that, first, he was raised conservative--his dad certainly is, too. A nice old guy--in his 80s--and he likes me just fine, but I suspect he has no idea how far left my politics go. So there's that. And the work that Jefe's done, well, up until the past few years, he was a guy who worked in a bakery, played hockey (in a local league), went to pro hockey and baseball games, raised his kids, whatever. He hadn't been very many places, unless his kids' sports took him there. When he started trying to get on the US baking team, I think it started opening his eyes, and the process that eventually led him to the winners' circle opened his eyes even more. He's tasted more, and done more, and traveled more--way more--than someone our age, without a college education, who has always had a basically working-class job, is likely to have done. But his politics haven't caught up with his experience, on some level, I think.

So, hey, I do what I can. I find it completely entertaining that he regards me as a source of knowledge about these things. Hell, he regards me as a source of knowledge about all kinds of things, plus I'm the official writer for the bakery--anything that needs writing, I do it. Now we just have to get him to give me another buck or two an hour, and I'm set.

Babblicious

My new neighborhood is more residential than my last neighborhood. Even though there were more people living in my last neighborhood, they were living in highrises. This neighborhood has no highrises, but it does have trees. And the trees have leaves, which turn colors and fall to the ground in the fall. And, because there aren't building maintenance men with REALLY LOUD LEAFBLOWERS, which are among the most stupid of all inventions, the leaves are sometimes in piles along the sidewalk and in the gutters, which means I can shuffle through them and smell the season and be reminded of jumping in piles of leaves when I was a kid. Which is all good.

Leaf-shuffling notwithstanding, I just don't get enough exercise these days. I do a lot of weightlifting at work, sure, but that's not the same. I keep whining about how I miss the running around and aerobic stuff, and I do miss it: there's nothing like working up a good sweat, and I haven't done that since about February. I've already decided that, if the side work continues at its present pace, and/or I manage to score a raise from Jefe, I'm going to join a Y and start playing handball again. It's going to require some finagling: the only Y at which I'd really be able to play is the one near the bakery, but the joiner's fee is $100 and the monthly fee is $52.50. The other Ys in the city are around $41 to $44/month, with a joiner's fee the same as the monthly amount. Ten dollars/month difference isn't all that much, I suppose, but still; the point is, even an extra $44/month isn't nothing, which is why I'm continuing to hold off--that same amount applied to my student loan each month would go a long way toward eating at the principal, for example.

Orange's tales from the gym reminded me of my lakefront walk last weekend, or, at least, the part of the walk where I saw several women who were nearly all bones, with some skin covering the bones. Leave aside the patriarchal beauty standards stuff (yeah, I know, you can't really do that), and leave aside my own judgments (yes, I know! I know!), it's just strange to see someone at one or another extreme, because you know they had to work at it to get there. I'm not talking about an extra 40 or 50 pounds, I'm talking about an extra 150 pounds--carrying a whole other person around on you. Similarly, I'm not talking about slender people, I'm talking about people who are suffering bone damage because they're so thin.

One of the strange aspects of my schedule, in combination with my already existing early-morning tendencies, is that I rarely sleep past 5:30 am, even when I don't set an alarm. (I've also noticed that I've been sleeping considerably less than I used to do--five or six hours a night, rather than the six or seven I used to get. When I do get my ass in gear and get more exercise, I'll be interested to see whether it affects that.) That means that on days like tomorrow, when I have to be downtown at 9:00 am, meaning I should leave here by, oh, 7:30 or so, I know that I don't really need to set the alarm. The chances of my sleeping until 7:00 am are pretty slim, even if I do crack open a bottle of wine tonight. (I have to tell you, I say I'm going to do that much more frequently than I actually do it.) Even last night: I stayed up until nearly midnight, puttering around, not doing much, and I woke up at around 5:30 this morning.

I've also stopped washing my hair Saturday morning (yeah, like you care about these personal grooming details . . .), on the off chance I do something social Saturday night, i.e., I'd take a shower first, and I try to avoid washing my hair twice a day, especially in the winter. These days, though, I often end up not going out on Saturday, and, if I spend Sunday working and don't go out, like today, then I end up not showering at all on Sunday, which means I am seriously grubby by Sunday night. That shower tomorrow morning is going to feel REAL good, and I should probably hack off some aloe to rub into my scalp tonight.

I've got the Food Network on in the background, and it's reminding me why I loathe it. Too many commercials, for one thing. Too much--WAY too much--faux competition, for another. Entirely too much babble; the babble:actual information ratio is extremely high.

Speaking of a high babble ratio, that is precisely to what I am subjecting you guys, so I'm going to bed. Say goodnight, Dick.

Neither all that

nor a bag of chips. My local library branch, that is. I'd been meaning to get my ass over there, it being walking distance from my apartment, and today I finally got around to it, and it was unsatisfying. It was great to see so many kids there, yeah, but the adult fiction "section" was nearly non-existent. I managed to find an Elmore Leonard, a John LeCarre, and an Ed McBain that I hadn't read, so it wasn't a total waste, but I can see that I'm going to have to make trips to the main library for my reading material. Feh.

Today's ruminations were about Thanksgiving. I've spent many a holiday by myself, and I learned to enjoy it--sitting around moping and wallowing struck me as an unpleasant way to spend a day off. Some years I'd get an invite from someone; some years I went out by myself; some years I'd clean my apartment thoroughly and then go out--whatever. For Christmas, I'd often go to a bunch of movies--four in two days was my record one year. For the last bunch of years, though, I've obviously been with Dave and his family, and it's going to be strange not doing that this year. We even had everyone--his son, mom, sister, brother-in-law, and BIL's sister and her partner--at our house at least once, which was fun, though challenging, not least because four of those people need gluten-free, three of the four need dairy-free as well, and one also needs soy-, corn-, cinnamon-, and sage-free. I always enjoyed coming up with desserts they could eat. I like Dave's family a lot, and it pains and saddens me to think that they probably think I'm a horrible person right about now. And I know I have to disengage from that--one of the rules of this, apparently, is that we all get to tell our own side of the story to our own families, and our families support us. Though my family doesn't really know very much: my brother knows some stuff, but my parents seem completely uninterested in hearing anything at all, and I don't really feel like telling them. (Yeah, given that i can't talk about work, either, conversations aren't all that deep, or, at least, they don't really touch on anything that's actually happening in my life.)

Meanwhile, I have my apartment back! and they did a fine job--actually scraping off the bubbled paint, plastering, priming, and then painting. When they put the furniture back (after they cleaned the floors! though they need another cleaning), they put one or two things in alternate locations, and it turns out i prefer the alternate locations, so they've also done some interior decorating for me. Now I can hang the rest of my crap on the walls and call it a day.

Miss Allaney

I was chock full of good intentions to do the laundry, and I even got so far as to gather it up and take it downstairs, but, of course, one of the four machines is out of order, and the other three are in use. I'll do it tomorrow--I have other sheets and towels, and I don't have to wear chef clothes tomorrow, so it's fine.

I'd been coughing a lot in my living room, and I was thinking it was paint fumes, or paint dust, or whatever, but I've decided it's more likely because it's dry in here, so I dragged out the vaporizer last night. I can tell I'm going to spend the winter with (a) the vaporizer cranking away and (b) the windows open; I might even get a second vaporizer. I have radiators for heat, and, I suppose because it's such an old building, they don't really turn all the way off. Again, not a problem, just an adjustment. The radiators in the last place had similar issues, so it's not even an adjustment so much as a calibration.

The deities of scheduling apparently decided I should work at the bakery on Monday and take off on Tuesday, rather than my usual other way around. The FedEx package with my latest copyediting job didn't show up at the bakery today; some screwup means it'll show up on Monday, when I don't normally work at the bakery. (I had it rerouted . . . because I'm not usually at home when it's delivered. The building manager has been putting the packages in my apartment--for which I am extremely grateful--but it's not her job.) Of course, I can't actually work on the copyediting until after I receive it, which, as noted, won't happen until Monday. In addition, they're apparently going to be working on--perhaps even finishing the work on--my living room on Monday. All things considered, it seems to make more sense to work Monday, get the package, let the workmen do their job without me around, and have my day off on Tuesday instead, when I can get my apartment back into order and do my copyediting. The RFP I need to review for the other client arrived today, so I have something on which to work tomorrow.

I wish I had the energy (and courage) to commit to writing a novel in November. You commit to writing something like a thousand words a day, I think. If I were a Better, More Courageous Person, I'd try it--as they say, it doesn't have to be a good novel. Actually, if I thought I had more time I might even try it. I give my evening hours over to vegetation (or work, if need be), and I don't much want to give them up for what would eventually feel like a fruitless effort (yes, I know, I've talked myself out of it already; two of my friends keep nagging me about that). What I am saying (or writing) out loud for the first time is that I am committing to spending time writing the (non-fiction) manuscript I have in my head--not every day in November, but for parts of November, anyway. I keep saying I'll do it when I finish this or that free-lance job, and then another job shows up, and I am sure as hell not going to say no to work. When I have six months of expenses in the bank (Hah! I say, and Hah! again . . .), sure, I'll say no to the occasional job, but I don't even have next week's expenses in the bank. (I'm waiting for a copyediting check, I get paid at the bakery next week, and I haven't invoiced for some writing work because some of it is still in process, just so you don't think I'm in dire straits.) But work or no, I really want to spend some time writing what I want to write.

Of course, today I committed to getting Jefe's website in order, so there you go. Right now it's a shambles. The guy he originally hired owes him hours of work, but Jefe doesn't know what to tell him to do and doesn't have time (or the ability) to do the writing himself. He probably hired the wrong guy--this guy claims to have algorithms or whatever that increase the likelihood the website will show up in searches. But Jefe's customers already know where to find him, and, really, a bakery is a local business. Jefe doesn't need to come up on a search engine in Arkansas, you know? Anyway, the copy is lousy, the navigation sucks, the pictures aren't actually of Jefe's stuff, and a lot of the information is out of date. Jefe's newer computer guy claims he's going to fix this or that, but doesn't actually do a damned thing. This guy provides internet service for local businesses, I think, and he installed a bunch of security cameras for Jefe, at least a quarter of which aren't working at any given time. He's not going to fix the website any time soon. Jefe said the old guy will do anything you tell him to do, so it's really just a matter of writing copy, getting some photos, doing the navigation, etc. Jefe will pay me for my time, and I think he really needs a functioning website, so WTF, why not.

Today I was contemplating the varied rates of pay at which I work. I realize we're not supposed to talk about what we earn in this society, but I don't give a shit. I personally think that's part of the conspiracy to keep workers divided against each other. At the bakery, I make $9/hour, and $13.50/hour for anything over 40 hours a week. The copyediting varies--it's usually by the page, which means it can be as much as $25 or so an hour if I'm efficient and the text is well-written; it's usually around $15 to $20 an hour, I'd say. The writing for my old boss pays $75/hour. That's more than he was able to pay me before, when he was at other organizations, when the rate was usually about $50/hour. (He knows that I'm fast and that I won't pad my hours, so, in the end, I'm probably cheaper than someone whose rates might be lower.) In other words, in one hour, I can make anywhere from $9 to $75, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. When I'm wiggling my fingers in one way, shaping croissants, say, it's the lowest amount, and when I'm wiggling my fingers in another way, typing, say, it's the highest amount. I don't have any grand conclusions from all of this, mind you, I just thought it was kind of interesting. If I could figure out how to get even 20 hours/week of the higher rate, I could make a bunch of money--$78k a year, for those of you without a calculator handy. Even 10 hours/week--i.e., I'd still get a day off each week--would be substantial, and more than I'll make at the bakery for four times the number of hours.

So, speaking of croissants, today I came in and . . . my plain croissants have disappeared. Not the baked ones--the first thing I do after I punch in is check out the baked croissants on the rack to see how they look and to make sure there are enough of them. (Friday I came in and found a pan of unbaked ham and cheese croissants in the walk-in--I asked Phil to bake them, and he said they'd baked two pans--two dozen--for the store, but I said, well, we're selling a lot of these, so let's bake these 13, too. Damn if we didn't sell them before 1:00 pm.) Anyway, I knew I had put several pans of 36 in the freezer yesterday, but they were nowhere to be found. Turns out, one of the night bakers burned 16 dozen of them. Jefe dug one out of the garbage to show me, and it was a charcoal briquette. Apparently the guy forgot to set a timer (he's a good baker, so this was a complete aberration) and just killed them. Luckily I had enough in the freezer so they could bake enough for the store and for the markets, but I had to rearrange my shaping plans for the day. I also found a piece of dough in the walk-in that I apparently overlooked yesterday (easy enough to do, given the racks of crap in the walk-in by Friday evening), and I suspect tomorrow's croissants will not be pretty.

And, yes, I made pizza today, albeit with Phil's focaccia tapanade rather than sauce (the delivery guy never got me sauce) and with half whole wheat flour in the crust. I liked it better, but it was late coming out of the oven, so there was a lot left at the end of the day--less now, because some is in my refrigerator. I've been using a few Spanish words with the dishwasher--days of the week, temperature (hot or cold), one more--and trying to pick up more from what I hear, but it's not enough. We have a new intern who is truly fluent in both Spanish and English (she's Puerto Rican), and I'm hoping to get her to teach me the verb forms and such. In any case, the dishwasher likes me, despite the language barrier. Apparently, back in the day, he was eating a slice of pound cake every day with his coffee. Brad, in his inimitable way, bitched about the cost of that, so now Leon gets a doughnut out of the freezer to dunk in his coffee (as Jefe said, it's hard to say whether he's warming the doughnut or cooling the coffee). I think he knows that's safe to eat, so he sticks to that. But I give him stuff, too, when I can--the pizza, certainly, and, last week, a croissant that I'd cut to check the lamination, and a day-old pecan roll. So yesterday I grabbed the bowl for the 20-quart mixer so I can mix the pizza dough, and Leon makes it clear that he'll wash it for me in the pan washer, which he then proceeds to do, thus saving me the time of washing the thing. The great thing for me is that he'll teach me the occasional word in Spanish, and, even more interesting, is how much we manage to communicate despite the barrier. I guess he makes me think of the lessons I learned from my father--that there's no shame in any job, that everyone is worthy of respect (at least at first; people like those "serving" in the current administration are a special case)--Golden Rule things, basically.

And that, really, is where I think notions of social justice have to originate. It's why I think we should all have access to the same health insurance to which our Congresspeople have access. Today I asked Brad if he always used the ricotta in five-pound batches--I'd thought to make a three-cheese pizza, with ricotta, parmesan, and mozzarella, since I didn't have sauce. Brad said that he did always use five-pound batches, so I said, oh, okay, I won't dip into it then. He said what he has said before--it's too good for these guys. And before I could stop myself I said, "I really hate it when you say that." I didn't elaborate, and I didn't make a scene, but jeez, you think he'd've learned something from getting picked on as a kid. Apparently not the right thing--but I'll work on him over a beer sometime; it's just fear on his part, and that's never a good basis for deciding which action to take.

This made me laugh out loud:

What American accent do you have? Your Result: Philadelphia   Your accent is as Philadelphian as a cheesesteak! If you're not from Philadelphia, then you're from someplace near there like south Jersey, Baltimore, or Wilmington. if you've ever journeyed to some far off place where people don't know that Philly has an accent, someone may have thought you talked a little weird even though they didn't have a clue what accent it was they heard.
The Midland
The Northeast
The South
The Inland North
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Because, you know, it's completely accurate. Dave used to say that he could tell when I was talking to family on the phone because my accent used to become much stronger. Of course, I don't think I HAVE an accent . . . but who does? I completely freaked out one of the not-quite-down-and-out guys who occasionally does deliveries and paints our paper signs for us by asking him whether he was from Philadelphia or Baltimore. Thanks to Orange for this one.

Lemon Tea

About two weeks ago, the radio was tuned to one of the local rock stations (and thank the deities for that--lately Brad has been putting the country station on, and it makes me want to stab him) and "Let It Be" came on. Phil started singing along, except he was singing "Lemon tea, lemon tea . . ." I'm pretty sure he was just goofing around.

Then, yesterday, Leon the dishwasher was up in the crawl space getting down Christmas decorations, which are stored in big plastic tubs. He must have asked a question about whether to bring down this thing or that, because Jefe called out, "Bring down everything that's not a bunny." Which still cracks me up. He brought down an animatronic Santa, who sings and dances (it's about four feet tall); he has a bakery box in his hand, and all I have to say is, if there were a cake in that box, it would be destroyed. I think it's demented--I also think it's demented that they're putting out the Christmas stuff already--but nobody asked me.

What you have asked me about, however, is croissant shapes. Imagine a long triangle of dough. You start at the wide end and roll it up, which gets you the layers of layers. You can put it on the pan just like that, or you can bring the ends around to meet, or somewhere in between. In our bakery, we don't curve the good ones at all. Rumor has it that in France it's either law or tradition that the ones made with butter aren't curved but the ones made with margerine are. We curve the margerine ones and glue the points together with egg wash because the customer wants to make sandwiches out of them. As noted, I hate handling that shit--it makes me feel nasty, and not in a good way.

Meanwhile, they have done some kind of work on my apartment today--the primer can is turned around, so someone was in here--but (a) it is by no means done, and (b) it smells bad in here; it makes me cough, actually. I suspect it's dust, fumes, or both. And my furniture is still piled in a corner. I think I'm going to drag it out of the corner for the weekend--I doubt they'll be up here tomorrow or Sunday. I know I shouldn't complain about it--it could be worse, etc.--but it's a pain. I basically don't have the use of half of my apartment until they're done. Eh; they'll be done sooner or later, I suppose.

Baby Got (Sore) Back

Yesterday's adventure featured a wrenched muscle in my lower back, which made even the simplest activities painful. I loaded up on ibuprofen and i gently stretched what I could when I could, but I really did a number on myself. I eventually headed home, thinking I'd maybe do a little gentle yoga, take a hot bath and then make some dinner and then vegetate in front of the television, but noooooooo. They started working on my living room yesterday, which means all of my furniture except the desk is piled in one corner of the living room or shoved into the kitchen, and everything's covered in plastic; and it smells like wet plaster in here as well. While I suppose I could have cleared enough crap away from the kitchen table to make dinner, I'm let someone else cook for me instead (though my original choice, a crunchy-granola place a few blocks away, wasn't accepting credit cards, so I had to go elsewhere), and then I took that hot bath, and then I went to bed. I am definitely glad they're cleaning this place up, too; I was getting tired of looking at the stains and having loose paint fall on the floor.

My back/hip feels much better this morning--still tweaked, and serving as a reminder that I really must figure out a way to integrate yoga into my life again, but not as bad as yesterday. The bath/ibuprofen/sleep combo definitely helped. With any luck, they'll be done with my apartment when I get home today, and, with better luck, they will have moved the heavy stuff back to approximately where it belongs.